According to their wedding announcement, which I’d found in The Post and Courier archives, after a wedding trip abroad, Abigail planned to focus on charitable projects. She’d been quite successful in that realm. The Bounetheau family’s philanthropic pursuits were many, varied, and high profile. Some organizations who’d been recipients of major gifts found themselves in awkward positions after Peter and Peyton’s very public downfall. Organizations whose mission it was to prevent drug abuse found it difficult to accept money from a foundation with actual drug lords on the board of directors.
Typically, I started an investigation with the victim and those closest to him or her and worked my way outward. Because I’d already profiled C. C., Abigail, and their four children, Charlotte Bounetheau Pinckney, Virginia Bounetheau Heyward, and Peter and Peyton Bounetheau, after I’d reacquainted myself with the immediate family, I opened a profile on Tallulah Hartley and started looking for ways she might fit into the tree.
She was born at Beaufort Memorial Hospital, July 18, 1990, which made her twenty-five years old. I did some quick math. Barring a premature birth, Tallulah would’ve been conceived during the last third of October 1989. Her parents were listed as Hollace Ivy Spencer and Drum Anderson Aiken. Well, it couldn’t have been as simple as finding a Bounetheau on her birth certificate, or it wouldn’t likely have stayed a secret this long.
Neither Abigail nor C. C. had ever been married to anyone else, nor did either of them have children from another relationship who’d been recognized. I’d never run across anything that pointed to either of them being unfaithful—but I hadn’t had a reason to look for that sort of thing up until now. Still, Tallulah’s age made me think that her connection to the Bounetheau clan was through one of C. C. and Abigail’s children.
Charlotte Pinckney’s four boys ranged in age from twenty-four to twenty-eight. That placed Tallulah between Charlotte’s youngest two boys and close enough in age that it was impossible for Tallulah to be Charlotte’s child in the absence of some wild scenario where either Charles or Wyeth Pinckney was not her biological son. The Bounetheaus had their share of unusual family situations, but we’d scrutinized Charlotte’s family with a microscope last year. There hadn’t been so much as a suggestion of domestic drama.
Something heavy settled on my chest as I moved on to take another look at Virginia Heyward’s family. Her daughter, Kent, would’ve been twenty-four years old now if she’d lived. There was only six months between Tallulah and Kent, which made it impossible for Tallulah to be Virginia’s daughter as well.
Oh, good grief…was it possible that both scenarios Nate and I were looking into were true? Could C. C.’s death be related to Peter and Peyton and Tallulah because one of them was her father? I hadn’t dug as deeply into C. C. and Abigail’s twin sons last year because we’d discovered early on they were the subject of a multi-agency task force investigation. Neither of them had ever married, and at age fifty, they’d both still been living at home at the time of Kent Heyward’s disappearance. They were odd, the Bounetheau twins, and that was the most charitable way I could put it.
You expect identical twins to look alike. Past the age of maybe six years old, you also expect some things to be different—clothing, hairstyles, et cetera. But Peter and Peyton were indistinguishable from one another at fifty. The only time I’d ever seen them, every detail of their appearance had been identical. And they spoke in tandem, completing each other’s sentences, and echoing each other. It was difficult to imagine them separated long enough for one of them to have a relationship with anyone else. Nevertheless, I spent the next two hours scouring newspaper archives and subscription databases looking for any indication either of the twins had ever dated anyone.
Had I been able to access records from the St. Cecilia Society’s ball, I may have found that the twins once escorted debutantes, but alas no database existed for any amount of money that would provide that information. St. Cecilia’s was notoriously shy of publicity. Both men had attended University of Virginia, their father’s alma mater, but neither had belonged to a fraternity as far as I could determine. I stood and stretched as I noodled over where else to look. I was going to have to talk to Charlotte and Virginia anyway, if for no other reason than to make sure they weren’t aware of someone who bore a grudge against their father. Perhaps Virginia would be willing to give me some insight into the twins.
Rhett yawned loudly, then followed as I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a Cheerwine. I needed a pick-me-up. He headed towards the mudroom, and I heard the flap on the doggie door as he made for the garage steps on his way outside. Beyond the kitchen window, the sun-kissed Atlantic beckoned me.
I walked out onto the deck, relishing the rhythmic melody of waves breaking and rushing towards the beach. It was impossible—and likely would be for a long while—to come out here and not think of the night six weeks ago Nate saved my life and nearly forfeited his own. I shivered, took a few deep breaths.
I missed Colleen terribly, but it helped to think of her nearby with Darius, and still watching over all of us. She’d protected every member of the town council who she knew she could rely on—not just me—when I’d been her point-of-contact. I knew this for a fact. She’d saved my daddy’s life at least once.
I’d also watched her plant thoughts into the heads of many people who had no idea she was around. Did she do that to me? Was she messing with my head? Most likely. No doubt she was laughing right that very minute because even though I couldn’t see her, she could still read my mind. I glanced around for any sign of her.
It was still chilly, and a stiff breeze blew off the ocean, clearing the cobwebs from my brain. My head was so full of Bounetheaus, I hadn’t approached Tallulah’s connection to them from the right direction. I needed to start with her parents, and figure out where one of them had crossed paths with one of the Bounetheaus. I took my glass of Cheerwine back to the office and pulled up the profile I’d started on Tallulah.
Her parents, Hollace and Drum Aiken, had been with her on Saturday. Had one of them recognized C. C. Bounetheau? They lived in Edisto Beach—both their families had for several generations. I checked into their real estate holdings. They owned a house a few blocks off the beach and a commercial property two blocks away. A few clicks later I found the name of their restaurant—Spencer’s.
They sold a mix of seafood specialties and pub food. I pulled up photos. The sign on the window said it was established in 1948. It wasn’t fancy, had maybe once been a filling station. Old gas pumps featured in the outdoor decor. It looked charming, with a definite beach bar vibe, reminded me a bit of The Pirates’ Den, Stella Maris’s beachfront restaurant. It didn’t take long to find the real property records of the transfer of the restaurant to Hollace and Drum Aiken from her parents, the Spencers, fifteen years ago.
I completed profiles for the Aikens. They had two younger daughters who were in college, both at University of South Carolina. As far as I could tell, Drum Aiken had never lived anywhere aside from Edisto Beach. His wife had gone to Savannah College of Art and Design, and then worked for The Chadwick Studio Interior Design in Charleston for more than six years. Hollace Spencer Aiken was two years older than Peter and Peyton but certainly close enough in age that it was conceivable one of them had fathered Tallulah.
I pulled the Aiken’s marriage license. And there it was…well, maybe. Probably. The Aikens had married in June of 1991, when Tallulah was nearly a year old. Drum Aiken was listed as her father on her birth certificate. I needed to talk to Hollace Spencer Aiken, but I needed more first. I needed to be sure of the answer before I asked Tallulah’s mother this question. Time to talk to Virginia Bounetheau Heyward.
If Drum Aiken wasn’t Tallulah’s father, did he know it? Did Tallulah?
NINE
William Palmer, the Heyward’s household manager, informed me Mrs. Heyward would receive me at 1:00 pm. I was surprised on two counts: one
that William Palmer had actually delivered the message—history had taught me his loyalties were to Abigail Bounetheau—and two, that Virginia Bounetheau Heyward was up to seeing me. My recollection of her was that she was quite fragile and often medicated in a crisis.
In a rush, I grabbed a protein bar and a Cheerwine and hurried out the door. Once I was on the ferry, I called Mamma from the car.
“Mamma, I have good news,” I said when she answered, though I suffered from no illusions that this would be received as such. “We’re going to have an extra day of vacation. It seems there was a mix-up. We’re actually leaving on Sunday.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Well, it’s quite simple. We’re leaving a day early.”
“E-liz-a-beth, I’m neither simple-minded nor hard of hearing. I simply can’t comprehend how that sort of mix-up occurs. Surely there are reservations somewhere—an itinerary. I really do need a copy of that.”
I nodded. “Soooo do I.”
Mamma sighed. She adored Nate, and we all knew this. He was probably her favorite between the two of us if the truth were known. Which is the only reason she’d gone gracefully along with this whole shenanigan. “Has Nate at least told you where we’re going? I can’t even start packing—I haven’t a clue what to bring.”
“Yes—I did get that much out of him. We’re going someplace warm. We should pack comfortable clothes for warm weather. He said only one nice outfit.”
“So you’re packing capris and so forth?”
“Yes, and shorts. Swimsuits.”
“Shorts and swimsuits? So we’re either going to South Florida or we’re leaving the country,” said Mamma.
“Could be Hawaii, I guess. Or Puerto Rico…one of the Virgin Islands.”
“But we should take passports,” said Mamma.
“Definitely.”
“I’d best get to packing. Your father is out hunting that fool reindeer with his buddy the zookeeper. That’s actually a blessing straight from God. I’ll get so much more done. Call your brother and sister.”
“I will, Mamma. Mamma?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry about this.”
“Sorry? For what? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going on a fabulous vacation. I simply can’t wait.”
I stared at my phone for a minute after we hung up. If any of the rest of us had sprung a last-minute change like that on her, she would’ve handed us our heads. I called Merry, who was the teensiest bit stressed by the schedule change because Joe had a corporate event in Charlotte on Saturday, but she thought she could work it out.
Blake answered on the third ring.
“No problem,” he said when I explained the situation. “Just tell us where to be and when. Tammy Sue’s showing us some houses this morning. I gotta run.”
I sent up a prayer they found a house soon. Blake seemed completely unfazed by the departure change. I remained completely flummoxed by the whole thing. It wasn’t that it was a problem or anything, but why exactly did we have to leave on our anniversary? This made no sense to me, and Nate was typically nothing if not logical. Something was going on here—something besides an elaborate, expensive trip for eight to parts unknown. What exactly was my husband up to?
I pondered that as the Amelia Ruth II slid across the water towards the Isle of Palms marina. My gaze drifted out to sea, then bounced around the ferry. Was that Blake’s Tahoe? I shifted in the seat for a better look. It was. He’d said Tammy Sue Lyerly was taking him and Poppy to look at houses. What the heck?
No one was in the Tahoe. I got out of my car and headed towards the stairs to the enclosed deck. The door opened and out came Tammy Sue Lyerly followed by Poppy and Blake.
Why were they on the ferry? I knew the last thing my brother wanted was to look at houses anywhere off the island of Stella Maris. I smiled brightly and waved. “Hey! I had no idea y’all were on the ferry when I talked to you.”
Blake froze, an uneasy expression on his face. “Hey. I didn’t know you were either.”
Tammy Sue and Poppy and I said hey and all that.
Blake said, “It’s too cold to stand out here and talk. Poppy, why don’t you and Tammy Sue get out of this wind? Get in the car and go ahead and start it up. I’ll be right there.”
“All right,” said Poppy. “See you later, Liz!” She sent me a quick little look I couldn’t quite decipher.
I hugged her and we all waved, said fast goodbyes.
When they were out of earshot, I stared my brother down. “What the actual hell do you think you’re doing?”
He smothered a curse, looked away, lifted his ball cap off his head, then resettled it. His eyes, resolute, met mine. “What I have to, okay? Look. Don’t say anything to Mom and Dad. I’ll tell them as soon as we find something—after the holidays. But there’s no sense getting Mom all worked up right here at Christmas.”
Something grabbed ahold of my stomach and twisted. “Is there nothing at all in Stella Maris?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not one house in our price range. Mom’s right about one thing. We can’t raise a child on a houseboat. It’ll be fine.”
“Come live with us—we have way more room than we need.”
He looked to the Heavens, sighed. “Sis, I love you for offering, but no. We need our own space—just Poppy and me and our little ankle biter.”
“But—”
“You know how hard this decision was for me,” he said. “But we’ve made it, and I just need to get it done. Maybe after a few years the real estate market will be better. It’s not forever.”
My heart hurt for him. I knew exactly how much he loved our island home.
“Liz?” He looked at me, a plea in his eyes. “Don’t make this harder.”
I nodded, rubbed his arm. Then I hugged him tight.
“I gotta go.” He held me at arm’s length, gave me a stern look. “Not one word.”
I nodded again and he was gone.
I climbed back in my car and cried. This was all kinds of wrong. The chief of police ought to be able to afford to live in the town he protects. Blake had said many times he felt like he couldn’t breathe anywhere else. I understood they needed privacy, but there had to be a better answer. Maybe I could talk him into staying with us just for a little while—until one of us came up with a better solution.
Nate would help me persuade him—he could be very convincing when he wanted to be. Blake and Poppy could have most of the upstairs. This would work. I had a plan. When the ferry docked, I pulled into a parking space in the lot to fix my face. I pondered my strategy all the way to lower Legare. Then I set Blake and his housing issues aside and got my head back into my case.
As I drove through the wrought-iron gate and down the shaded, brick-lined drive to the three-story, clay-colored mansion with triple-tiered piazzas that was the Heyward home, I couldn’t help but think of the first time I’d come here. Colton Heyward had called and asked me to meet with him regarding his daughter’s disappearance. Colleen had been with me, and she’d made friends with the ghost of a debutante in a hoop skirt. Was she still here? Was Colleen with me right now?
“Colleen?” I waited a minute to see if maybe there’d be some sign of her presence, then set my phone to record, slid it in the side pocket of my cross-body bag, and got out of the car.
William Palmer escorted me to the living room where Virginia Bounetheau Heyward waited on one of two cream matching sofas that faced each other in front of the fireplace. As before, I couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the gilt-framed oil paintings, museum quality antiques, and detailed woodwork in the room.
“Ms. Talbot has arrived,” William announced me, then stepped to the side so I could enter the room.
Virginia rose. “Thank you, William.”
He nodded and made his exit.
With a shoulder-length chestnut bob and bright blue eyes, Virginia Bounetheau Heyward was a younger version of her mother. As she regarded me, I could read in those eyes, by the invisible weight on her shoulders, that seeing me rubbed fresh salt in the wound of losing her daughter. Our only association was related to Kent’s death.
“Mrs. Heyward, thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.” I shook her outstretched hand. Why, with all the viruses and bacterial infections in the world, did we keep this custom?
“Of course,” she said. “Please, have a seat.” She sounded stronger than I’d anticipated.
I nodded, took a seat across from her, and resisted the urge to pull out my hand sanitizer. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she said. “We weren’t prepared for this, of course. Daddy wasn’t a young man, but he was in good health. It was quite a shock. How and where he died. Do you have news?”
“I’m afraid I have more questions than anything else at this point. I assume you’ve been told that my husband and I are investigating for the Stella Maris Police Department.”
“Yes, William informed me,” she said. “None of us have the first clue what he was doing in Stella Maris to begin with. And now Dwight Goodnight—he was Daddy’s companion—he’s gone missing. Did you have a chance to speak with him?”
“I did.” I nodded, looked at her with a question. “He told us that he and Mr. Bounetheau had gone to participate in the Christmas boat parade.”
She closed her eyes and raised her eyebrows in an expression of dismayed disbelief. “I simply cannot fathom him doing such a thing. Perhaps he’d had a mild stroke.”
“Do you have reason to believe your brothers might be involved in your father’s death?” I asked.
She frowned. “Peter and Peyton? How on earth…oh…I see. You’re wondering if Daddy could be called to testify against them.”
LOWCOUNTRY BOUGHS OF HOLLY Page 9